


Prenez-moi

by Izvin



Category: Last of the Mohicans (1992)
Genre: 18th Century, British Army, But he is also brave and loyal and trying hard, Death at stake, F/M, Huron, Jealousy, Native American Character(s), Negotiations, SOLDIER - Freeform, Self-Sacrifice, Seven Years' War, The guy might be biased and prickly and a bit stuffy, Translation, Trials, Unrequited Love, Wild West, inadequacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23534314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izvin/pseuds/Izvin
Summary: Because somewhat downgraded movie version of Duncan Heyward deserves some recognition too, here I bring you his POV in the tale of how he sealed his fate.
Relationships: Nathaniel "Natty" Bumppo/Cora Munro, Onesided Duncan Heyward/Cora Munro
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	Prenez-moi

Old Huron speaks his judgment.

“Magua take younger daughter of Munro, so that Munro’s seed doesn’t die and Magua’s heart is healed.”

 _Damn, taken away, trapped with this cruel savage once more. But at least no one wants to kill her._ Nathaniel Poe’s Mohican companions must be nearby, they might be able to free Miss Alice in time. It is better than nothing. With intense focus he continues to listen.

“English officer will go back to English, so that their hatred burns less bright.”

Relief floods him. He was spared whatever atrocities they were planning for them and now he can set things right and renew his soldier’s honour. But there is one more captive. _Now what of Cora?_

“Dark child of Munro will burn in fire for Magua’s dead children.”

His heart drops. A memory flickers in his mind, of accident with oil lamp and locked door when he was preteen. _Cannot be, cannot be…_

“Long Rifle, go in peace.”

The indian sachem says to trapper that negotiated for them and his words reverberate with finality and Duncan is still and mute with incredulousness. But then Huron warriors seize Cora to drag her away and it is real and his arms are still bound, but no way is he letting that happen... He turns to Nathaniel Poe whose face mirrors the same disbelief, terror and unwillingness to comply he feels. Dark-haired man grabs him.

“Trade me.”

He blinks. Duncan remembers gratification with which he listened to the general Munro sentencing that trapper to death, remembers pointing his pistol at him on the river. And now he hears him offer his life in exchange for hers. His heart leaps for a second, rekindling old desire to see the man who stole Cora Munro from him removed from his path and having one more chance to win her over. _Full of sorrow and all alone, only I will be there to console her and lead back to safety of civilized world where we belong. Prove at last I too have the ability she so admires in that insufferable wild man and some more._

But the sentiment crashes and dwindles before it can rise truly. No, not with second, not with third, not with infinite chance he will measure up to Poe and even if her grief might wane and her sense for reason makes her cooperative, she will forever look away from Duncan. And her chiseled cheeks will be wet with tears that wanted to put out the fires and he won’t be allowed to dry. And her dark eyes will be alight, ablaze with the greatest sacrifice, one that saved her life like Duncan never could (he was the one saved too, what a useless little crown’s soldier…). It will remain untarnished and untouchable and burning brighter still in her memory. _In my triumph I will lose her completely at last._

Her terrified confused shout and Nathaniel’s ever more insistent demand the Hurons take him cut the line of his thoughts short. He inhales, turns towards the sachem to relate trapper’s words to him in French, rapid like current of waterfalls they crossed and instead of faithful translation he changes the content. 

“Take me! A British officer! For her!” 

Chaos is breaking out all around, Magua complains, Hurons cheer in anticipation of heathen sacrifice only more riled up by Cora’s struggle and their negotiator’s voice cracks with despair. 

“Stop them!” 

He does, yells “arrête”, while Nathaniel steps into centre of clearer area, spreading his arms out, turning to them all, lifting his chin and rising his voice, taking the spotlight.

“I am the Long Rifle…” 

Duncan stares at the sachem, pulls on all the fierceness and all the dignity of his rank commanding his and only his attention. He is dizzy, heart pounding and stare boring into distant wrinkled face of old indian. The man has no care for this clamouring and certainly not for British primness, being savage, assured in authority of his great age and satisfied with his judgment and would prefer to depart, but he pauses, eyes filling with contemplation. He must have noticed the discrepancy, recognized English variant of Poe’s nickname.

“…My death will be a great honour for Huron…”

Duncan beseeches with his eyes, pulls on all the love he has for older Munro’s daughter and all the grief and all the wrath. _If I return, British hate might cool down, but harm her and mine will be all-consuming, because there will be nothing else left. I’ll be a revengeful Magua to you._ Black and hard and gleaming, indian's eyes move from him to the trapper and further behind, to her surely. And surely she is looking Nathaniel’s way. Like she’s been the whole time, with hope, faith and admiring longing. Even that thought stings.

“…Take me!”

Finishes Poe. Huron sachem’s eyes return to Duncan's. And there is challenge in them, coarse and merciless like these lands and death sentence hanging in the air waiting to fall. Asking – “Do you, little fumbling soldier, really have what it takes to bear this?” He remembers feeling trapped and scorching heat and its long lingering echo. He shivers. And clenches his jaw.

“Did you tell him?”

Reluctantly he looks at Nathaniel Poe. Blue insolent eyes are filled with vulnerable worry, what an unusual sight. He hesitates for a moment, but then in hoarse voice forces the lie out, just as he did in Fort William Henry.

“Yes.”

And there is more truth to them than then, because while he looks at the white man in indian attire, he thinks of that unspoken question and he addresses it. He will not flinch. He will succeed at least in this.

A thoughtful croaky voice fills the silence, something in Huronese and Duncan doesn’t understand a single word, but the tone of the utterance makes his heart clench. He nods to show his gratitude and harden his resolve. And then Cora is led back, weeping and trembling she reaches towards her beloved Nathaniel and he embraces her readily. His confused protests rather faint. Hot thorny jealousy sparks in Duncan’s insides once again, but seeing them like this, seeing her clinging to the source of her solace and protection strengthens his conviction as he turns away. Yes, this is the right thing. He waits under old Huron’s gaze with firmness. A soldier’s death. He didn’t fall defending british fortress, instead ordered to accept surrender, because God meant for him to sacrifice his life defending her.

Next, when Indian warriors grab him, he cannot supress panic and he stumbles as they roughly pull him forward. He is sure he can already smell smoke and hear crackling of flames. Trapper’s protests grow louder, that fool with armful of the most disarming and precious woman under the sun is still repeating he was supposed to be taken. Steely fingers dig into Duncan like claws, but he turns over his shoulder to be better heard.

“Go! Take her to safety!”

For a smallest moment he meets her eyes, warm rich brown like fresh chestnuts glistening in sunrise and wide with shock. He spots concern for his person in them. He spots she is moved. He closes his own and tries to immerse himself in that vision, in the echo of her voice calling his name to keep the fear and pain at bay.

It doesn’t work. 


End file.
